I welcome summer,
With my head held high, good mood,
Keeping new image.
Morale-Boosting Award
Moves an artist forward,
Farewell to The Backward,
His perception as ‘Ward’
A new image of ‘Lord’
Nice creations onward…
Fear-Checking Award
Is a commanded reward,
Expecting it a horde
Like a protective sword…
A spirit is lifted,
Its owner proved gifted,
Future efforts trusted;
More jobs self-entrusted…
For Fame name drafted:
A New Stem is grafted.
I would always tell people “If you want to change the line of your life and re-write all the stories behind, do not go to visit psychologists anymore, just try to buy a new Kitchen Table instead”.
When it comes with a refreshing waking up at the most earliest morning time, that’s exactly where the new story begins to give you a warm dish even if that’s not much on the table, two unconditional hottest hands on even if nobody have taken other seats, a real sense of sublimity to see whatever of positivity even if your eyes are half-opened and a white reborn version of your new being even if what you had worn so far has been all black-colored memories.
So please just sit and feel taking the first sip of the coffee while your window blue sky rewards you a new image that the new kitchen table write your new being with.
Written by Mostafa Sarabzadeh,
Researcher and Poet
A new image
For first impression
An advertisement
For sale promotion
Various lens and mirrors
For real, virtual, strange images
But for man
No matter how modified the appearance
The heart remains the same
The Ohio wipes its face every few miles.
This bend in the river
forgets the wharfs, the gravel silos
and power plants,
only occasional coal barges
push an industrial flatus before them.
Here cattails gather herons
into measured dominions.
The river gallops under placid waves
Fish-eyed currents dip and toggle
in the ripple.
It is possible to watch yourself
being rinsed and laundered
in this newly whisked stream,
possible to wash your face anew.
A person can stand on this reedy shore
and forget, nor see the daily grime,
but observe a lathering,
as a fishing sunlight
pulls out a new image,
the spread of fathoming nets
flung far to catch this fresh
momentary wonder.
It’s our responsibility spiritually
To become the new image of God Most High
It’s our future Kingdom’s prosperity
That allows us to be hopeful and make us fly
Crown yourself with rosebuds
Some are granted with mystic visions,
able to create choices by different decisions.
The dual vision in contemplation of correspondence,
the saintly sinner, God’s grace and his tolerance.
The rose with its lower stage of roots and thorns,
the necessary precursor to the crown of petals it forms.
The light of the sun and the rose are inseparable,
images of beauty immeasurable.
Awareness of the transitory nature in mortal realm,
to conquer the fleshly will and redeem.
The soul knows she is more then heart and mind,
the old seeks the new image towards divine kind.
Leaps of consciousness and substances are born,
mystical experiences transform.
The sensitivities of the soul are heighten,
deliberate flaws by virtue enlighten.
The existence and to act upon,
the cosmic ocean enlighten action.
Potential rise within the realm,
mystery in mysteries, is the emanation psalm.
For we are what we emanate,
constant decisions of faith.
J-ust
O-pen
S-ixteenth
E-arly
P-icture
H-aving
U-sed
D-elightful
A-ugust's
N-ew
I-mage
Topic: Birthday of Joseph P. Udani (August 16)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Reading for inspiration
and not for fact
The words paint a picture
in my mind
Like dominoes falling
one by one
They rise from the page
to remind
My fingers enliven
and start to draw
A vivid story
new image sublime
All colors reborn,
as each word is set free
The ink now transformed
—and divine
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
new image
new impression
change exterior
change interior
better version
better design
make improvements
were needed in order
to create the persona
that was always desired
move away from the old
move towards the new
leaving the past version
of self in the dust
a journey
out of character
step outside the norm into new
undertakings endeavors
that will expand personal horizons
cultivating a brand new image to
be portrayed to the world
The beggar
Wizened by lack, more than by age
The old blind beggar, who does loiter our streets
Unknown to most, is the legend
Behind the tales of Joe the bandit
With his great horde, he'd ridden into our town
The mordacious look, on his heavily bearded face
Did elicit fear, from the bravest.
Our good old town; always his to pillage
The lives of the town's folks; nothing but a trifle
He'd kill to instill terror, at the slightest provocation
But his next ride, into our little town
Had been his last ride, into any town.
A spent cartridge a meter, had lined our streets
The drains and sewers, had also run red
As a weak town's folks, had risen to war
Killing the bandits, all but Joe.
Shackled and marched round the old town
His life was spared, with his eyes gouged out
His new image; a message to others
That Old James Town, was out of bounds.
03/04/17
you make me better
i see a new image of myself
i feel like i am somebody
i actually wanna live now
i feel cleaner to the touch
the height of my depth has grown even more
my smile actually hurts my face....and it feels good
each sunrise feels new everyday
the feel of my every emotion is not so bad
my pride is now put in the proper perspective
my vibe is a perfectly creased three piece suit
warm happy faces have overtaken the stone cold facial expressions
i clock in each morning looking forward to clocking out
no longer do i drive in circles
no longer do i search for the strength to reenter the driveway of my life
the key to my heart is placed in a hook in the center of your heart
thank you....for helping to notice my dusty flaws
you are such a blessing to my maturation of my mind, body, heart, and soul
you continue to make me a Better Man....
Its a blurred image of my wish
So deeply buried I wish it resurrects as fast
From those thorns of impracticalities my bones fears to tend
When shall that day be, real, true
A song above the cries of the "Bata" drums, to shout joy
For my birth into a courage, that I lost all this age
Oh Sovi Agbade, god of the thunderous laughter's
Let it flow into my heart and punish my weak ego
Now!
Yes, from the olden stocks, i am born
Risen to the call of the dawn criers ogene
That calls me to tend the land, for the seasons seeds of sweats
Aye! I shall respond and on guard long before
This day of this age
To claim my lost glory, from the drown fate
My trampled destiny, today we part communion
For my new image awaits at the outskirt.
Now!
HAIL THEE OSAMA, NOT !
I cry your demise, Oh dear Osama
For you live not long to be a saint
From The sour fruits you sow since the decades
Just yesterday, your elder was blessed
John was called, Oh dear Pope John
Beatified for life of a flock-Sherperd
That never canibalized upon the flocks
In peace he leads, in reality he preached
The world to turn a new image
What was your motive then? Bn
Progress for humanity or long live to the Qur'ans Sharia?
Who live to rule the other? Humans or faith?
Learn where you got it wrong, Mujaheddin
On your second coming, dare not evil
Never dwell in tora bora!
Bear with men and learn
If only you care to the core
We should have crave your mercy
As sympathizers
Apostles to Jesus, harmless merciful talibans
Yet I admire you a lot, I adore you
Its works of a mad courage to stand alone
And existed as the odd for this long
So your sainthood days shall come
For my joy to call you Prophet Bn Osama
I pray thee peace, I call the true warrior
For the bad memories that haunts me always
Never to forget, till you exist no more.
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